


Up Against The Wall

by lostatsea



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: It's kinda sad, Thanksgiving, but I can't write something not sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 13:09:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8668771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostatsea/pseuds/lostatsea
Summary: He was not fine.
And he hated how it had to end up like this. Trapped in a room, curled in the corner, closing his eyes, and repetitively whispering, "It'll be fine. It'll be fine. It'll be fine."





	

He was not fine.

And he hated how it had to end up like this. Trapped in a room, curled in the corner, closing his eyes, and repetitively whispering, "It'll be fine. It'll be fine. It'll be fine." 

But his chanting did nothing, and the plaguing voices trapped inside his head spoke louder than anything real. Worries and a lack of confidence tangled in his brain, screamed vicious questions, and left cobwebs of irrationality. 

He had to completely blew thoughts out of proportion and used negativity to fuel the fire, and he was well aware of his mind's tactics. His brain seemed to lurch onto any visible shred that negativeness, and he absolutely hated it. 

But somehow, that self-awareness wasn't enough to drive him out of the destructive habit of fighting his own head.

And so he left himself to battle silently, painfully, wallowing in sadness and anxiety. He left himself to struggle on his own, several rooms away, where he could still hear the television and the chatter from downstairs.

Tyler was never really a fan of Thanksgiving, but usually, it was bearable. He could hang by his siblings, play the piano in the other room when possible drama erupted, and remain out of the conversation unless deciding to enter it.

Plus, the gathering of family that only happened a couple times a year was nice. Thanksgiving was one of the few holidays where a couple aunts and uncles drove the extra hours to spent time together, and there was plenty of food on the table to enjoy.

This particular Thanksgiving, the holiday started off like every other year. It was being hosted at his parents' house, and he and Jenna were invited, of course. His brother, sister, and their spouses all came was well, along with some other relatives scattered across the state.

Jenna had baked a killer batch of corn muffins, most of which were devoured entirely within the first minute of sitting down to eat, and the rest of the food trickled down as it was passed along the table.

People were smiling, exchanging jokes, and telling stories about their jobs, pets, and their own separate lives. Occasionally, a comment would be made about Tyler's increasing popularity in his band, but Tyler liked to steer the conversation away from his uprising fame. He liked the normality behind a simple Thanksgiving dinner talk, and his music didn't have to dominate the discussion. 

Eventually, everyone dispersed from the table once the food had nearly vanished. Some family lingered in the dining room, some went into the kitchen, and many populated on the living room couch to watch the football game.

Some of the younger kids went into another room with the talk of uncovering some dusty board game to play, and so Tyler decided to join in on their youthful innocence and play along. He had barely seen some of his younger cousins throughout the year, so he also thought it would be good to talk to them a bit more.

With the help of Tyler, the group decided on playing Sorry, as that was one of his own childhood favorites. They removed it from the pile on the shelf, earning a, "I haven't played this in years," before settling it down on the carpet and gathering around.

It wasn't long before everyone was assigned a color to play as, and the game begun. The set of cards was trickling down in the center with each turn, and the small pieces progressed around the board's path. Everyone was laughing and grinning, feeding off each other's smiles.

However, for Tyler, that changed once his younger cousin, Tommy, nearing the age of six, decided to speak up. 

"Tyler," Tommy said out of the blue, looking up with wide eyes. "My daddy says you're not okay. Are you?"

Tyler felt a jolt of nerves rush through him. "Yeah, yeah," he nodded, "I'm okay, why?"

"He says your music is strange, and there might be something wrong with you," Tommy spoke innocently, a high-pitched voice that seemingly wouldn't belong to the harsh words pouring out from it. "So I was just wondering if you were okay because my daddy says you're not."

And so Tyler stood up, mumbled an excuse to exit the game, and headed straight for the stairs. His old room was left untouched, and he knew he could find sanctuary from everything if he hid by his bed.

He found himself trembling in the corner, up against the wall, all too reminiscent of high school. He was praying that he could calm himself down quickly and return downstairs, but his shaken confidence and worsening thoughts did not seem to die down.

Tears that had threatened to spill were now pouring down his cheeks, follow by sobs into a nearby pillow. His relative was right; Twenty One Pilots wasn't anything special, and he himself was messed up.

Tyler was not shy about his mental illness in his songs and the way that his body was a parasite, built to attack itself. 

However, he knew that other people were afraid of this fact; they were afraid of looking a little too deeply into the lyrics and discovering the imperfections of the human mind.

But Tyler liked to shield himself away from any negativity. His own head produced enough.

But this was unavoidable. This had confirmed his long-held belief that his band was a purposeless mess of music. This had confirmed his lack of confidence. This confirmed everything. 

How would he ever face anyone again? What was the point of playing a piano or writing lyrics when all he ever produced were inadequate, worrisome songs? How was he going to make money in the future if this band gimmick was all going to collapse? How would he continue if he didn't even have the support of some relatives?

He didn't know. Tyler didn't have any of the answers. He was out of options.

And so he left himself to battle silently, painfully, wallowing in sadness and anxiety. He left himself to struggle on his own, several rooms away, where he could still hear the television and the chatter from downstairs.

He attempted to calm himself down with breathing exercises, but he could never figure those out. And then once he seemed to be at a point where he was calmer, he would erupt into another crying fit, his mind again flooded with negative thoughts.

But eventually ,he was able to stop the constant flow of tears, and he was only left with a throbbing headache and swollen, bloodshot eyes.

He wasn't sure if he had any mental resolution besides to push through, to ignore the pounding thoughts and his younger cousin's words. He usually never came to a conclusion when he broke down. He just had a slight feeling of possible hope. 

Maybe, he was wrong about all this.

Maybe, Twenty One Pilots was still great.

Maybe, he didn't have to care what people thought.

He stood up, the room spinning momentarily. Old pictures lined the wall, and basketball trophies were still glistening on untouched shelves. He spotted a couple of his old lyric notebooks among other novels. 

He had forgotten how much he had overcame.

But he cleared his mind and quickly retreated to the bathroom to splash water in his eyes. He took two Advil to help alleviate the headache, hoping that he looked presentable enough to return to the crowd. 

Tyler stared at himself in the mirror momentarily before nodded and turning away. He grasped the door handle, opened it, and began making his way down the stairs like nothing had happened.

He was fine.


End file.
